"C'mon, please. Look, you guys, just a little longer. Two minutes, c'mon." They don't budge. I'm reduced to beggin', and it still don't help. That glove's closest - c'mon, fucker, float over to the pack...
"Please?" This smoke's done. No shiny hand waitin' with the next one, means they're gonna rough me up now. They like piling on and sweepin' light, cause I go nuts and still hold onto the smoke. And they really like nukin' me, just grabbin' on and fuckin' me up. Came twice tonight that way... so far. They like to shove a handful of diet pills down me and massage real slow while I tweak. They like slingin' ink on my hands and calves and shoulder blades...
There's about twenty other things they like to do.
I'm draggin' ass. Wish this was about done for tonight, but I won't black out for a couple hours yet. Don't they know it.
"Look...ah, y'all let me rest up some more. I'll last a lot longer that way, right? Okay?"
Click - whizz. Fuck, here we go. Better not be Wipeout again, the CD player restartin' it over and over... or that speed metal shit. Damn near killed me. I wriggle in the handcuffs and hold my breath -
Piano. Seventies, dammit... who? A glove jerks the smoke from my lips. Six others sidle up, start to lay down on my skin.

When I'm alone, all by myself...

Journey.
The hands start to slide. I cackle at 'em, remembering the name of the song. Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin'.
Hurts just thinkin' about it. They poke fingers between my toes, in my butt crack...Others clutch like there's no tomorrow. I'm goin' wild, hee-hawin' my guts out.

It's tearin' me apart... Oooh every, every day...

Slick hands force open my armpits again, and one of 'em loves to polish my fuckin' balls.
I bet I'm here for a long time yet... Hootin' and yukkin' up a storm.

The la-la part takes fuckin' forever to get here. The gloves kick it in, building with the guitar... Right up to the dead stop. The hands freeze, still wrapped around me.
I'm layin' still, pantin bigtime, waitin for -
Piano notes.
Hands slidin, pokin, massagin... enthusiastically.

Like before, there's maybe a dozen replays, and then a hand picks up the pack. I gotta cig in my teeth when that damn short intro plays.
the gloves hold still only 'til one of 'em's got me lit up - then right back to work. I can't fuckin' smoke right now. Shit, I have enough trouble just tryin' to catch my breath.
The hands that went for the pack and Zippo latch back onto me again. I'm gonna hoot up a lung or something, can't fuckin', fuckin' - oh, they're squeezin' more now - I roll my head around, and too nuts, this is too much, drivin me nuts.
Nine or ten more repeats. I'm mighty sick of Journey right about now. On a song that isn't this long, they leave me the cig during the gap between plays - not that I got the breath left to smoke any - and yank it before the song really builds up, so they can totally fuckin' dig in...

Oh fuck, break time, oh fuck. Finally. Drenched, way too tired, I'm just layin' still - bump, a bottle on my chin. It's... Jim Beam. Sluggin' down a couple inches, bitin the cig being held up. When I don't go along, they tend to play a really fast song a lot of times... One more selection tonight, I bet. Shit...
Third night, tonight? Only three? Damn.
Three dozen songs so far I don't ever wanna hear again...
I am so wiped out, wanna doze right now. Four smokes this break, if I'm this worn down...
Bet they pump me off again. My balls ache. Sore spots all over my body, though I forget completely about 'em when the gloves are fondlin' me - c'mon, just one more tune. One more. Then I can sleep... and wake up rarin' to go, 'roid-powered and wearin' more ink...
A fourth cig is not floatin' up. What - "One more smoke. I Need it. Ain't gonna make it. Gonna pass out here. Serve ya right." Not that talkin' ever does any good, but it's obvious from the CDs that they can hear...
Click. Older, sock-hop stuff. It'll be short, but I wish it were slower. Here goes. Shit. The glove ditches the smoke... Of course -

Oh, won't you stay... just a little bit longer...

Shit - shit - not the neck. The scruff of my neck, fingertips only - but they're... aggressive.
Laughin' real smutty... all the time. Mutherfuck. Lower back, shins, always the fuckin' feet. Fingers drawing lines and circles. Laughin' away. Short song, though... the punchier parts are only a couple seconds long. Awake for a while yet. Oooww -
One damn finger rubbin' up and down my meat, all the way around - gotta howl...
 

The bed's alive. Gently wrapped around -
Ain't no bed. I look frantically, and keep chucklin'. Oh fuck, another day. They're goin' easy on me, to start. Shitty easy listening music, but at least it's slow. And calm. Elevator music. Wake-up...
Hands squeeze my collarbones. Forearms. Feet.
A tap. Cigar at my mouth. Bleah... Fingers close on the tendon above my heel, and I jump. And bite down on the stogie.
Head flat, smoke everywhere. Violins and sappy voices.
More of 'em - near my crotch, aaahh f-
Oh. Holding a jar. My feet get massaged sloooooowly. The others keep teasin' at a steady clip. Turns out to be a long song... they get me pissin' just before the first play's over.
Restart - and the hands ride around my asshole. A pan or something is shoved under me - sets of fingers slip together, then crawl apart. This continues for a couple minutes of serious chuckling. My reflex is to smoke harder, and for the hundredth time it don't distract me any...
Next replay I'm shittin' like a horse.
The free gloves return with a pack of baby wipes. The other four press in, heavier now... a fifth satin sweeps my belly, back and forth. Cacklin louder, tuggin' on the cigar...
They wash me off, sorta. Takes a good half-hour, their way.

Water. Then a few slugs of Everclear, and a few smokes...
And when I'm good and shitfaced, they switch CD's and skip my break.
Little Brown Jug.

Ah ha ha, oh ho ho...